The Final Act
by Killjoy Queen
Summary: What happens to Lindsay at the end of 'The Human Centipede'.


**A/N: After seeing the movie, I literally couldn't sleep. Not because I was scared by it; but that it was sickening. This is the product of that lack of sleep, because I felt I had to finish the story somehow. I recommend that anyone who hasn't seen it doesn't read this; as it is horrendous, but for those of you that have (or have a love of really disgusting horror) and feel a need for closure on the film; I hope this helps to set your mind at ease. **

**Never, ever listening to movie recommendations from people at school again :']**

* * *

They are all dead.

She wasn't too sure before, but she is now. Her knees; pulsing with the agony of the horrific procedure, which she has been forced into beyond her will and screams, buckle and her body crouches in the centre of his creation with an equally agonising thump.

All she feels is pain. Endless and horrifying. It consumes her; eats her and taunts her, but her sobs are falling on deaf ears. Her sense of time is erratic; but she knows that he would have come up and done more unspeakable things to her body by now, if he was still alive.

Her back half is dead. Her front half is dead. She is trapped amongst them in a grotesque sandwich; sobbing and sobbing; mourning her friend and pitying herself. She is the remnant of an insect creation and the only being left, in this place. She does not cry for the front half of what is now her body, though. Rather, she envies the wonderful sense of oblivion, away from the pain and indecency that is his creation, which her front must now be engrossed in.

Her sanity is breaking very quickly indeed. It starts slowly at first; one precious strand breaking at a time when she first realises she's alone. For a while, she simply sobs; her knees, dying in sensation, curled under her body.

The rest of the few strands she has left break at once when the taste, lying dormant in her mouth until now, begins to gestate. It enters her everywhere, or what feels like everywhere; from her tongue, to her throat – to her nose; one of only the few entities of her body which she is truly able to call her own.

She does not cry anymore, as that terrible, horrible taste violates her again and again. She moans instead; her trapped voice reminding her of a dying horse on her aunt's ranch back in the states. It is very hard for her to keep her 'feed' down, but she forces it hard; for the consequences will be far worse, should she not. The disgust is growing inside her; so huge, so crippling, that it is only a matter of time until she snaps.

She shrieks. Nobody can hear her, but she can't help herself. Her screams are muffled but there; falling not into the fresh, blissful air around her but into a silent, miasmic cavern where the source of her insanity made its way inside her; in a rape, an unwilling, blameless act of her body; that is more abysmal than anyone could ever know. She laps her tongue around her toothless mouth; trying to lap away the taste as her lungs pour their incessant bellows, but it only spreads it as more pours in.

Shit. It is there, all around her; in its appalling odour and taste. She is weak physically; at least partially because of it and her upper body strength, weak before, is much more depleted now. But for someone, with adrenalin pouring through their system as does their stimulus, it does not matter. Urine pours in a steady stream from her body; settling warmly around her legs, but she does not notice.

All she knows is that she has to find a way to end it.

She uses her arms first, to try and push herself free from the front of her body. She pushes and pushes until she can no longer; for the agony becomes worse as each suture rips; in a small wet sound and a gush of blood. It pours into her mouth, like an offering and she takes it with greatest, shameless glee. She drinks herself dry, swilling it around her mouth like mouthwash and swallowing it.

Little by little, as the minutes pass as she consumes her life, her mind comes back to her as the tides of painkiller come in to hold back, if not just thinly, the source of her madness.

She does not want to be alive. But she does not want him to win, either. Or recede to a horrible place, in death and meet him again.

Not yet.

Her choices are limited, as are her chances; but she decides to fight. Before acting rashly however, she closes her eyes; to think of what to do. It is the first time in three days that she has been completely silent. She realises with some stupid amusement of how raw her throat is and laughs, before cough-sobbing again into the front part of her body.

She remembers the glass and the knife, and opens her eyes. They are blue and wide; searching frantically and desperately. Hope bubbles inside her and deflates as her eyes fall on nothing but carpet or blood.

She believes she has paid her penance in any kind of hell that she could be sent to, so feels without shame that she would sell her soul without a moment's pause for those two things; two things more precious than any rock or mineral of value in the Earth, which have continued to evade her sight.

Then, her hand rests on his and, doubtlessly, a fresh sting cuts across her palm. Hope; wonderful hope fills her now and she prises his fingers, little by little, apart. She cannot risk it now.

She must be careful.

Relief fills her body, what is still alive and able to feel, when, at last; the beautiful, life-giving shard of glass falls into her hand. She clutches it tightly; as if it would run away from her. She brings it forward, as if unable to believe it and examines it lovingly. It is jagged and covered in blood, but it is worth more to her than anything.

She does not hesitate; for she will not let the taste come back, and crudely begins the reverse of the evil that has been done to her.

It is a gruelling and painful surgery. She begins with the flaps on her face, first. She saws at them almost freely; the pain minimised, as they belong to a different part of her body that does not feel. She saws and saws, until her jowls are free. She can turn her head now, a little.

Just a little.

She is still, however, joined to the other two thirds of her body; in a shared poisonous kiss that she could never have even let be spoken in her mind in the before-time, not long ago at all; previous to all this God-play by the Devil had occurred.

She thinks of this and begins to hack at the mouth-anal join that makes her this demon insect that she has become. She saws at it and saws at it; through the gristle and sutures that make it be. Blood pools around her legs in the urine puddle her adrenalin caused. It hurts more as the glass gets blunter, but it does not matter.

It takes a while longer than the flaps; because of the pain of the flesh that is hers. And, when the last rubbery piece of gristle tears away from the gaping, inhuman product which is now her mouth; her lungs take in the fresh, magnificent air around her and she releases a deserved, scream-howl of triumph.

It echoes around the room and to a passerby would be ugly as anything; but, to her, there is no sweeter music. She sobs now; the bleeding heavy but ignored; as the relief of the air comes to her. The miasma; the evil stench, is half gone and she is so close to freedom; freedom of her own, true body; away from this wicked, ersatz creation.

The moment is hers for a little while; this chalice of triumph - and she welcomes it. She laughs as she sobs; gargling noises as the blood still pours, but to her; they are still beautiful.

She sees the surgical knife by the door, blocked previously from the now-severed part of her body and crawls towards it. It slips and slides in her eager, pathetic hands, but she manages to get a grip on it as she stretches. It is difficult to crawl with the dead weight behind her, that is her best friend; dead, from something that the Monster mentioned but of which she isn't sure. Her sadness for her friend begins to slide up and up, but she pushes it back.

She cannot give up now.

Before she uses the knife, she examines it, as she did the glass before. It is stained with his blood and she smiles at it; proud of her other part whom she knows better than anyone but doesn't at the same time. She wants to lick it; taste the Creature's flesh which graced the blade as part of her stabbed it into his calf; as a sort of final vengeance for them all.

But she does not want the flavour to come back, either; or have his presence, somewhat worse than the miasma itself, in her mouth.

She closes her eyes again; sobbing still, runners of clear, sticky mucus pouring from her nose. Blood drips down her face and onto her breasts; coating them in a precious, biological treacle which has become disastrously polluted.

She holds it downwards; towards her friend's kiss that she cannot see and she begins carving her last path to freedom.

It is much harder, this time. There are more nerve endings here and it burns like fire as she saws through the sutures; sliding over the join of flesh. She screeches out many times as she fucks herself free; with this instrument. More blood comes this time and flies up in beads in the air; as she is vicious with herself; by now becoming more used to the hurt, or her feelings going as she loses blood.

The last piece of gristle comes now and she is impatient. She pushes forward and the remainder of the join; in a wet tearing of flesh, snaps.

Thoughts of what to do cloud her, now. She does not howl at her victory this time; but her tears and sobs increase in volume. She holds her own head in her hands; the world as she knows it beginning to spin. She has lost a lot of blood as a price for her freedom and she is very, very poisoned.

Before she faints amongst the dead around her; she allows herself one more luxury, as the dry heaves rise and fall in her chest, that she has been so cruelly denied by her previous, pseudo body. She lets the heaves rise and fall, until, finally; reverse peristalsis comes, as she expects it would eventually and she releases what she can of her terrible poisoning. The release is foamy in consistency, milky-terracotta in colour and smells like the foulest pit of hell.

She lays back, resting in her reward and her eyelids flutter. She cannot smile; as her lips are gone, but she would if she were able.

She does not care now what happens to her. It does not matter. As the corners of her vision fuzz and fade away, she is happy.

She does not know that, in a few hours, officers will come to this place to investigate their missing, and find her; in this horrendous state which she, as she faints, finds incredible. She does not know of her face, reflected in the mirror, of what they will make her go under to regain the tiniest shards of what was her former beauty. She does not even know of the endless, lifelong psychiatric treatment she will undergo; with her loved ones fighting off a haze of insensitive media worms; for none of it means anything, at all.

The only thing that does, is that she is free.


End file.
